POETRY COMPETITION – WINNING ENTRIES
Virelai: ‘Khatun Riding by’ by Peter Wyton
Gertrude Bell, 1868-1926, buried at Bab Al-Sharji cemetery, Baghdad.
Al Khatun:
‘A lady of the court who keeps open eye and ear for the benefit of the state.’
Spin-doctor of Arabia, Gertrude Bell,
The restless energy of a gazelle
At peace now in the ravaged citadel
Beside the Tigris which she loved so well,
Visionary of her generation,
Linguist, intriguer without parallel,
She made Iraq, and we have made it hell.
Too long the Arabs were a bagatelle
Disdained by every major nation
Then she and T.E. Lawrence brewed a spell
Betokening self-determination,
A dream they could not ultimately sell
To their own masters. Humiliation,
Followed by ill-health, exasperation,
Obliged her to retire into her shell,
Spin-doctor of Arabia, Gertrude Bell.
The great and good attended her farewell,
The huge museum her inspiration,
Stands as her legacy, her sentinel.
Spin-doctor of Arabia, Gertrude Bell.
She made Iraq, and we have made it hell.
Rondeau: ‘Though all my friends could clearly see’ by Stella Cowmeadow
I loved the boy, he never knew.
His perfect eyes were blind to me
though all my friends could clearly see
and warned how sad the end would be.
I would not look, was blinded too,
though all my friends could clearly see
I loved the boy. He never knew.
Ballade: ‘Standstill’ by Christopher Thompson
History’s no casualty of the past:
six million, entirely innocent, went
to their deaths, their breathless mouths aghast;
but how such evil struck and what it meant
will not be lost. In order to prevent
all chance our baffled horror should decay,
they keep the bloodshed fresh as yesterday.
In 1690 all the clocks stuck fast
in the muddy waters of the Boyne. Pent
the hands, but you can hear as they march past
the tick and tock of loyal boots hell-bent
on drumming home in time their argument.
To hold off change, to keep the foe at bay
they keep the bloodshed fresh as yesterday.
Nine-eleven, and the flags at half-mast;
a nation bows its head in reverent
remembrance of tragedy unsurpassed:
the re-played, slo-mo, sickening event
named only by day and month; it’s present
every year. Prayers begin, and as they pray
they keep the bloodshed fresh as yesterday. |
